“Entrée” — Nooks Krannie


There’s a grainy rain burning, the apartment is a wall, 16 walls marinating under ribcages. My skin is silver, hold me hard enuf ur flesh is growing on my teeth, you’re quiet and I spread my marrow on sourdough, sweet sprouts and fennel confit. Your elbow is marinating, bath of sweet almond oil and my name is again something else, something easier for a digestive tract. You chew dinner in loud voices and so much pain. I’m chewing—bites in increments of 4—chewing marmalade in roughness, penetrating my gums and holes for another war, another hiding spot, the meat in you and me. We’re undercooked barely, folding hands, making up the lack of bread. Our hearts are daily food.

I’m in a body again, holding palms against sweat and the walls are grey. Barley, cereal from some morning is bleeding inside our home, paint cracks are exhaling a molecule smell befitting couple fights and soothing VaporRubs. We have oil in our throats, you face a different wall, swallowing packaged corn and sugar. The hurt is slipping in both parts.

4pm. Coffee scabs on the edge of your ipad wakes me up. We’re out of napkins and I dust samosa crumbs on cat hair. You uber for 11 hours before you stop sharing minor weather details.



Nooks Krannie is a Palestinian/Persian female writer from Montreal, Canada. Her most recent chapbook of poetry is candied pussy published by Thistlemilk Press. She tumbls as nkrannie and instagrams @nookskrannie.

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